


Too Close to the Sun

by Plenoptic



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Historical, M/M, Volpelli, daddy!Niccolo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2776370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Volpe's world is shaken when he learns that Machiavelli has a child with his young wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZerosGirl01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZerosGirl01/gifts).



> Where does this fit into the game canon?  
> Literally no idea.
> 
> Apparently multiple chapters?

“Tell me when to stop.”

“Gilberto…”

“Please, just tell me when.” Volpe cupped his hands to his chest, moving them outward slowly,  his eyebrows raising when Machiavelli said nothing. “Oh, come now! _No_ woman is that big!”

“A little more,” Niccolò said, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “There.”

“You’re joking!”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Damn!” Volpe looked down at the space between his chest and hands and whistled. “No wonder Ezio pants after her. Caterina Sforza, huh? I must meet her one day.”

“I’m sure you will,” Niccolò said with a sigh, rolling his eyes skyward.

Volpe elbowed him, grinning. “Are you _sure_ you didn’t try to bed her yourself?”

“No!” Niccolò’s face flushed, and he turned up the collar of his coat, scowling sideways at his smirking lover. “I somehow manage to _not_ want to fuck every woman I see, unlike some  individuals who shall remain nameless.”

“Is that an impugnation on my honor?” Volpe hooked an arm around the young man’s waist and drew him close enough that he could nip at his ear, not caring who saw. “You know I only sleep with you, _tesoro_.”

“Stop it! Jesus, we’re in public!”

“We’re never near this gate. No one knows us here.” Volpe snuck a hand down and grabbed Niccolò’s ass, grinning widely when the younger man yelped and swatted him away. “I’ve half a mind to kiss you here and now.”

“Try it and I will stab you, I swear to God.”

“Come home with me, then.”

“I have business to attend on Tiber Island.” Machiavelli sighed when Volpe pulled him into an alley and pulled him close, nuzzling his mouth. “ _Gilberto_. I said—” He was cut short by a molten kiss, groaning when Volpe’s tongue caressed his.

“Please?” Volpe broke their kiss and rested his forehead against his lover’s, pouting. “I’ve barely seen you these last few weeks.”

“There’s been much to do.” Machiavelli caressed the thief’s face, biting his lower lip.

“I know you’re tempted.”

The assassin chuckled. “I’m _always_ tempted.”

Volpe held up a hand to silence him, glancing up just in time to see one of his thieves drop into the alley. The man was red in the face and panting.

“Boss—by headquarters—Borgia—”

“Stop, collect yourself.” Volpe drew away from Machiavelli was surreptitiously as possible, though there was little point; among the thieves, at least, it was common knowledge that their leader had a male lover. “What’s happened?”

  
The thief took several long, steadying breaths, though his eyes were still wild. “Cesare Borgia stands at the bridge to Tiber Island, demanding to see _Messer_ Machiavelli. He has a hostage.”

“A hostage?” Machiavelli broke in, stepping closer. “Who?”

“I know not, sir. I am only relaying a message.”

Volpe frowned, turning to his lover. “It could be a trap.”

“Or he may have taken someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” Niccolò ran a hand over his hair. “I still have family in Florence. My brother, perhaps—Biagio, or Margherita—or—” He froze, and his eyes widened. “I have to go.”

“What? Machia—”

“I have to go!” Machiavelli shook off Volpe’s hand. “Are you coming?”

“Who—”

“Are you coming or aren’t you?!”

“Of course I’m coming.” Volpe nodded, and they took off without another word, hurrying toward the nearest stable. The boy managing it brought them two horses, already saddled, and they wasted no time in mounting up and riding for the island.

Rome flashed past as they rode, the sun casting long shadows as the afternoon began to wane. Volpe rode behind his young lover, his eyes on Machiavelli’s back, anxiety gnawing at his insides. He knew very little of Niccolò’s life back in Florence. The man’s life as an assassin and as a Florentine were separate, and he had taken great pains to make it so. Volpe respected that. Everyone needed their secrets, after all. But there was pain now in Niccolò’s face that Volpe had never seen before, and it made him ache in a strange way.

The sight of a Borgia contingent at one of the many bridges spanning the Tiber made the thief’s heart stutter. Their banners, decorated with the Borgia bull, fluttered in the warm breeze. Machiavelli drew back hard on the reins and swung down before his horse had cantered to a full stop, leaving Volpe with little choice but to follow suit, resting a hand on his sword as they approached the waiting guard.

“Borgia!” Machiavelli took point, drawing his own sword, and Volpe heard the soft _schnik_ of a hidden blade being deployed, tested. “Come forward!”

Two guards parted, revealing Cesare Borgia standing between them. The man’s face was twisted in a horrible smirk, and his dark eyes glinted. Volpe tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade.

“Machiavelli.” The former cardinal opened his arms, a foul satire of welcome. “How good of you to come when I called. I appreciate your haste.”

Niccolò lifted his blade, stopping some ten feet from the Borgia, his jaw tight. “I am told you have a hostage.”

“I do.”

“Let me see her.”

“In due time. I have need of something from you, first.”

“Let me see her!”

Volpe glanced at Machiavelli from under his hood. Her?

Cesare’s eyes narrowed, and he his head at one of his men. “Bring her forward.”

The guard nodded and headed for a cart behind the entourage, opening a door and reaching within. A child’s scream split the air, and Volpe’s hair stood on end when the guard emerged with a little girl trapped in his armored arms. The guard carried her forward, dropping her at Cesare’s feet, who knelt and took a handful of her raven hair, dragging her upright.

“You piece of _shit_!” Volpe jumped, startled by Niccolò’s outburst. The assassin was bristling, grinding his teeth, and there was fury in his eyes that chilled Volpe’s blood. “You take your filthy hands off of her, you son of a bitch!”

“Not until I have what I need, _Messer_ Machiavelli.” Cesare threw the child to the ground and drew his sword, holding it poised above her small body. “Now, then. You know my terms. I require the Codex—I know you salvaged it from that shithole, Monteriggioni. And I’ll thank you to throw down your arms.”

Volpe snarled, advancing, but Machiavelli threw out an arm to stop him, dropping his sword at the same time.

“Are you out of your mind?” Volpe hissed. “We can’t—”

“Gilberto. Put down your sword.”

“I won’t! We can’t negotiate with—”

Niccolò turned on his heel and swung, hitting the thief in the jaw. Volpe went down hard, and Niccolò kicked his sword away before turning back to Cesare, breathing hard.

“Let her go, Borgia.”

“I need the Codex first.”

The little girl lifted her head, sniffling, and fixed her watery eyes on Niccolò. “Papa…”

Volpe’s heart stopped. Didn’t stutter or flutter. He felt it stop, frozen behind his ribs, while his lungs collapsed. Machiavelli was trembling, clenching and opening his fists.

“It’s alright,” he said, his voice shaking. He sank to his knees, offering the child what almost passed for a smile, extending a hand as if that alone could close the distance between them. “Shh, it’s alright. Don’t cry, _piccina_. I’m here. I’m right here.”

“Niccolò,” Volpe said hoarsely, sitting up. “Oh, Christ.”

“The Codex, Machiavelli!”

“Alright!” Niccolò held a hand up when Cesare’s blade twitched. “Alright—I’ll get it. I’ll go get it, just don’t hurt her. Please, for the love of God, don’t hurt her.”

“I don’t want to.” Cesare stepped closer to the little girl, the tip of his sword brushing her hair. She whimpered, pressing her hands over her mouth. “But I will, Machiavelli. Make no mistake, I will.”

“I believe you.” Niccolò turned to Volpe. “Come on. Don’t do anything to anger him. Understand?”

  
Volpe nodded; words had failed him. They crossed the bridge slowly, hands in the air, waiting with baited breath to the silence, broken only by the little girl’s soft whimpers. Machiavelli took the first turn available to them, ducking into an alley and falling to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, shaking his head. “Oh, Christ, no. This can’t be happening. This can’t…”

“It’s happening.” Volpe knelt and dragged him upright, shaking him. “Why the _fuck_ didn’t you tell me you had children?! We should have been protecting them all this time!”

“I never thought Cesare would discover I was working with the assassins! Never! Why do you think I took such pains to make it seem that I was on his side?! I was so thorough I’d even convinced you for a time, I had no reason to think she was in danger!” Niccolò threw Volpe off, running his hands through his hair. “Dammit—God _dammit_!”

“What’s her name?”

“What?”

“The little girl, your daughter—what’s her name?”

“Primerana.”

“We’ll get her back, Niccolò. Safely. I swear it.”

Machiavelli shook his head, his face anguished. “We can’t give him the Codex, Gilberto. If they find the other precursor temples… God. We can’t.” He clutched his heart, his breath hitching. “He’ll _kill_ her. Oh, God, he’ll kill my little girl.”

“No, he won’t.” Volpe began to pace, thinking fast. “Not if we keep ourselves together. Is Ezio in headquarters?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. _Fuck_!”

“Stay calm, alright? Just stay calm.” Volpe stepped closer to his lover, taking Machiavelli’s face in his hands and forcing the younger man to meet his gaze. “We can save her, Niccolò, but only if you keep that famous head of yours on straight. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Machiavelli still trembled, but his gaze hardened, and he nodded. “Yes. Alright. What do we do?”

“Go to headquarters, see who’s there. We’ll work with what we have.” Volpe kissed him briefly. “Have courage, _tesoro_.”

Machiavelli shook his head, clutching Volpe’s coat. “There isn’t enough courage in the world for this. Be brave for me, Gilberto. Please.”

The thief nodded, kissed Niccolò again before grasping his hand and heading for the hideout. They took to the rooftops, the city’s twisting roads flashing by beneath them. Volpe tried to enjoy it, tried to let himself feel liberated and free, as he always did when he stood above Rome, but his heart weighed a million pounds, dragging down his spirits.

Niccolò had a child. A baby daughter, a little girl who had his hair and eyes. Why was that so shocking? Volpe knew his lover was married, a strictly political affair that allowed Machiavelli to keep up his facade. It was vital that he appeared to be a simple government official, a modest man with a small family to look after. If he was to maintain the political allies that the assassins required, it was essential that he hide in plain sight. But to think that his family was really that, that he and his young wife had had a child together, that when Niccolò went back to Florence he curled up in bed beside her, slept with her, maybe even loved her…

Volpe pushed those thoughts aside. He had to focus on the task at hand. If today was to end in heartbreak, it had to come later.

“Ezio!” Machiavelli threw the door to headquarters open, hurrying into the foyer and startling two new assassin’s lounging by his desk. “You two! Is the Mentor in?”

“He’s in the armory—”

Machiavelli took off without waiting for the novice to finish, leaving Volpe to hurry after him. They found Ezio crouched over a table scattered with bits and pieces of armor, carefully mending a crack in his pauldrons with a furrowed brow. He looked up when they entered, his expression brightening.

“Machiavelli, Volpe. How—”

“The Codex,” Niccolò said, cutting him off. “Where is it?”

“What?” Ezio raised his eyebrows. “It’s hidden, as always—why?”

“I need it.”

“What? What for? We agreed we would never—”

“There’s no time!” Machiavelli snapped, grabbing the front of Ezio’s shirt. “Where is it?!”

The master assassin’s gaze hardened. “What the hell is going on?”

“It’s Cesare,” Volpe said, stepping forward and forcing Niccolò back, throwing out an arm to keep him from grabbing Ezio again. “He’s at the bridge. He has a hostage—Machiavelli’s daughter. He demands the Codex pages in return for her life.”

“Wh—your _daughter_?”

“Yes, my daughter, so give me the pages!”

“We can’t give them to him!”

“No, but we can at least make him think we will,” Volpe said, planting a firm hand on Machiavelli’s shoulder. “Ezio—are your apprentices ready for combat?”

“Some. I’ll gather them. Which bridge?”

“Southern most. Let us approach Cesare with the pages, while you follow. As soon as we have the girl, you have to attack. The timing must be perfect. Neither Primerana nor the Codex can be lost.”

Ezio nodded. “Of course. We won’t let a child die. The pages are in my room—there is a panel under the desk. Meet me at the door.”

Machiavelli turned away and left without speaking, forcing Volpe to jog to catch up with him.

“Niccolò—”

“Don’t talk to me.” He threw open the door to Ezio’s room, crouching down and running a hand along the bottom surface of the desk. “Dammit, where—ah—”

“ _Tesoro_ , please. You must be calm.”

“I said don’t talk to me!” Machiavelli straightened, shuffling through the aged pages and nodding. “They’re here. Let’s go.”

Volpe reached out to catch his arm. “Stop.”

“Let go, Gilberto.”

“No—”

“I said let go!”

With a snarl, Volpe grabbed him by the coat and drew him in close, meshing their mouths in a brutal kiss. Niccolò struggled to push him off, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, but the thief only pulled him closer.

“Stop!” Machiavelli finally wrestled free, taking several steps backward, panting and wiping his mouth. “Stop it!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We don’t have time for—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Why would I?” Niccolò snapped, eyes burning. “Why would I tell my lover that I’ve had a child with my wife?”

“Why did you fuck her?!”

“She’s my _wife_! Was that part not clear to you?”

“Do you love her?”

Machiavelli turned toward the door. “We don’t have time for this, Gilberto!”

Volpe snarled to himself, kicked at Ezio’s chair before stalking after the younger man. No, this wasn’t the time or place, but damn it, his heart was breaking.

“Just answer the question.”

“No, I don’t love her.”

“But you slept with her.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“She. Is. My. Wife. Is that not what men do with their wives?”

“It’s hardly mandatory!”

“I wanted a child!” Machiavelli spun around on his heel, forcing Volpe to skid to a stop. “There! Are you satisfied now? I wanted a child, Marietta wanted a child, we were forced to marry one another, so we figured we might as well do something to make us both happy. Is that so terrible a crime, Gilberto?”

“You and I are happy! Or am I mistaken?”

“You know I love you!”

“I thought I knew!”

“Enough! We’ll speak of this later.” Machiavelli tucked the Codex into his coat. “Are you going to help me?”

“You think I’d leave a child to die—your child, no less?” Volpe shoved past him, heading for the door. Machiavelli growled and followed.

Ezio waited outside with three assassins, briefing them in low tones. They took to the rooftops while Volpe and Machiavelli hurried down the road at a run. Volpe let his anger carry him, poured molten hurt into his aching muscles. He knew he was being selfish. Knew it. But he had so desperately hoped that this fairy tale he and Niccolò had been enjoying might last forever.

Cesare was waiting for them, little Primerana trembling beneath his armored hand. Machiavelli pulled the Codex pages from his coat, breathing hard, approaching the Borgia prince with his hands raised.

“Give me the girl, Borgia.”

“No. Stop there. Have your man bring the pages to me.”

Machiavelli swallowed and turned to Volpe, handing him the Codex. Their fingers brushed.

“Bring her back to me,” the assassin said quietly. “Please, Gilberto.”

Volpe nodded. He took slow, measured steps toward the bridge, stopping when Cesare held up a hand. A guard took hold of Primerana and pulled her forward, dragging her along behind him. He extended a hand, and Volpe held the pages within grabbing distance. With one swift movement, the guard dropped Primerana’s arm and grabbed the pages. Volpe caught sight of a flash of white—an assassin’s coat—and lunged forward, pulling the little girl into his arms and turning to run—

“Assassins!” Cesare’s shout broke the tense silence that had descended over the bridge. Volpe burst into a sprint, passing Niccolò, who sprang forward and buried his hidden blade in the guard’s neck, wrenching the Codex from his hands.

“Go!” he shouted over his shoulder, wrenching his sword from his belt. “Get her to safety!”

“Nic—”

“ _Go_!”

Volpe swallowed and turned away, clutching the screaming Primerana to his chest, and ran. Guards flooded the end of the bridge, hefting swords to stop him, and he made a leap off the side, barely catching his footing on the wall, ducking into the nearest alley. He took every turn he came upon, twisting and winding his way across the island, his heart in his throat. Primerana had stopped crying and had hidden her face in his cape, still and silent as a statue.

He ducked into the first tunnel entrance he found, hurrying to its end and throwing open the door. The hideout’s warmth had never been quite so welcome. Breathing hard, he closed and bolted the door before sinking onto his ass, looking down at the little girl in his arms.

“Primerana?” He smoothed a hand over her dark hair, swallowing thickly. “Are you alright?”

“Papa,” she said, her small voice muffled by his clothes.

“He’ll be along soon. Don’t worry. Did those men hurt you?”

She shook her head. Volpe looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, and Claudia appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Volpe? What in the hell happened?”

“Cesare’s depravity reached new depths.” Volpe staggered to his feet, climbing the stairs. “This is Primerana Machiavelli. Niccolò’s little girl.”

“Oh, God. Cesare took her?”

Volpe nodded. He tried to set the child on her feet, but she only clung tighter to his clothes, whimpering. “Will you go get something from the kitchen? Milk, some pastries—anything that might help her calm down?”

“Of course—go sit by the fire.”

The thief carried the little girl into the library, seating himself on a chair by the fireplace and pushing back his hood, stretching his legs out with a long, low sigh. Primerana cautiously lifted her head, glancing around the room before looking up at him.

“Papa?”

“He’s coming.” Something cold settled into his stomach. There had been so many guards, Ezio had only brought three recruits… would Niccolò be safe? He cradled Primerana a little closer, resting his chin on her small head. He could feel her heartbeat behind her ribs, like the fluttering wings of a bird.

Niccolò’s daughter. Niccolò’s little girl. Volpe closed his eyes, breathed in the scent of her dark hair. He held a piece of his beloved in his arms. His _tesoro_.

He heard a commotion from upstairs, shouting and stomping feet. Primerana lifted her head, quailing in his arms, and suddenly the room was filled. Ezio had apparently been forced to call for backup; no less than ten assassins stumbled in, carrying wounded, resting them upon couches. Volpe jumped to his feet and pressed himself to the wall, shielding Primerana’s eyes when a girl was carried in between two of her comrades, blood running down the left side of her face.

“G-Gilberto—”

The thief whirled around, his heart leaping into his throat when Ezio helped Machiavelli into the room. The young man was injured; he was limping badly, clutching his left thigh, and his face was deathly pale.

“Papa!” Primerana began to struggle, pushing against Volpe’s chest and reaching for her father, bursting into tears. “Papa!”

“Hold her,” Ezio said, grunting as he helped Niccolò into a chair. “I need to bind his leg.”

“Work around her.” Volpe bent and placed Primerana in Niccolò’s arms.

“Christ. Oh, God, sweetheart.” Machiavelli closed his eyes, cradling Primerana’s head when she wrapped her little arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder. “Shh, I’ve got you, love, Papa’s got you…”

“Machia, we need to stitch your leg,” Ezio said, gripping his friend’s shoulder.

“Do whatever. I don’t care.”

“She shouldn’t see this, _tesoro_ ,” Volpe murmured, running a hand through Niccolò’s hair. “She shouldn’t see you wounded.”

Machiavelli grit his jaw, struggling, and pressed a kiss to the side of her head before gently unhooking her arms from around his neck. “Primerana, have you met my friend? We call him la Volpe. Will you let him hold you for a moment?”

She shook her head frantically, burying her face in his coat. “No. Papa.”

“I know, darling, I know. Just for a moment. I promise. I’ll be right here.” He continued to soothe her with low murmurs, passing her to Volpe, who removed his cape and tossed it over head, making sure her eyes were covered before reaching down and clasping Niccolò’s hand.

Ezio pulled his knife from his belt and cut open Machiavelli’s trousers at the thigh. “It will be painful.”

“Just do it.”

The assassin nodded and uncorked a bottle of wine with his teeth, glancing up at his young comrade before pouring it out over his wound. Machiavelli groaned, pressing a hand over his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut. His hand clamped down on Volpe’s in a vice grip.

“Hold this here.” Ezio pressed a folded square of linen against Machiavelli’s thigh. “As hard as you can. I need to get a needle and thread.”

“Here, I’ve got it.” Claudia swooped in beside them, pulling the linen back and deftly pushing the needle through the edges of the wound, apologizing when Niccolò snarled, his other leg jerking out in a wild kick. “Volpe, take the girl out.”

“But—”

“Take her,” Machiavelli said, panting. “I don’t want her to hear this.”

Volpe nodded, bending down and pressing his mouth to Niccolò’s brow before hurrying from the room, squeezing Primerana when she began to cry.

“It’s okay, _piccina_.” He sat down in the hallway, sitting her up in his lap and tucking her hair behind her ears. “Your papa’s okay. Shh, don’t cry.” He offered her a smile, wiping her eyes. “How old are you?”

Primerana sniffled, her small hands fisting in his coat. “Three.”

“Such a big girl. Thank you for being so brave tonight. I’m sorry it was scary.”

The little girl tucked her chin, examining her toes. “Scared.”

“I know. But you’re safe now. I promise. We won’t let anything happen to you.” God, she looked so much like Niccolò it broke his heart. He pulled the little girl close, cradling her to his chest. Primerana nuzzled her face into his coat.

“Volpe.”

“That’s me.” He smiled, smoothing a hand over her hair. “I wonder if he intends to bring you into the Brotherhood. We’ve survived too long that way—parents sacrificing their children for the cause.” The thief closed his eyes, rocking her back and forth. “I’m not surprised he didn’t tell me about you. Not really. You’re too precious for this world, _piccina_. For our world.”

“Gilberto.” Ezio appeared in the doorway, looking haggard. “We took him upstairs. He’s asking for the child.”

“Right. Thank you.” Volpe got to his feet, holding Primerana to his shoulder, and wearily climbed up the stairs to the small cluster of bedrooms. They were usually full of recruits, exhausted after a long day’s training, but now they housed the wounded.

Volpe picked his way around the groaning men and women on the floor, finding Machiavelli lying on a cot near the back of the room. The young man pushed himself up onto his elbows, reaching for Primerana.

“There’s my girl,” he sighed, pulling the child into his arms and lying back, holding her to his chest and burying his face in her hair. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“Papa,” she said, giggling and pressing her nose into his coat. “You smell funny.”

“I know. I need a bath, hm?” Niccolò extended a hand, grasping Volpe’s wrist and pulling him down to sit on the cot. “Thank you, Gilberto. For saving her. I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Volpe ran a hand over his lover’s hair, letting his gaze wander up and down Machiavelli’s wiry frame, landing on his bandaged thigh. “Are you alright?”

“It’s deep, but Claudia’s tended it well. I should be able to walk within a few days.”

“And the Codex?”

“It’s safe. We were successful.” Niccolò closed his eyes, stroking Primerana’s hair. “Mostly. Two died.”

“Hush.” Gingerly covering the little girl’s eyes, Volpe bent down to kiss him, caressing his face. “Worry about it later. You need to rest.”

“Rest with me.”

“In front of her?”

“She won’t know any better. Find a blanket, will you? It’s freezing.”

It was warm in the room, but Niccolò’s face was still pale, and Volpe did as told. He lay down at Niccolò’s side, pulling a thick coverlet over them and wrapping an arm around his lover’s waist. Primerana was already drifting off, both hands anchored in Niccolò’s shirt.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Machiavelli murmured, rubbing his daughter’s back when she squirmed. “I don’t—”

“I said hush. I forgive you. I wouldn’t have told me either.” Volpe kissed his shoulder, letting his eyes fall closed. “She’s beautiful.”

“I know. She takes my breath away.”

“She looks like you.”

“Mm. Here’s hoping she doesn’t grow up with my temperament.”

“God, no. She’s a sweet little thing. Nothing like you. At all.”

Niccolò chuckled. His breath had evened out, some of the warmth returning to his skin. Volpe held him close, propping himself up on an elbow and watching the Machiavelli—father and daughter—drifting off to sleep.

The sun had just peeked over the horizon when he finally dozed off himself.

* * *

 

“Volpe!”

The thief smiled, lowering his book and accepting the flower he was handed. “Thank you, _piccina_. This is lovely.”

Primerana beamed, tucking her hands behind her back. “I picked it.”

“Did you? All by yourself?”

“Yes!”

“That was very thoughtful. I shall use it as a bookmark.”

The girl giggled and toddled back across the room, tugging on her father’s cape. Niccolò bent down and absentmindedly patted her head, focused on the letter he was penning back to Florence.

“You should be in bed,” Volpe said, for the thousandth time that afternoon. “It’s only been a day since you were injured.”

“I’m fine, Gilberto.” The younger man sat back, checking the letter over a second time before pushing it across the desk. “Here. Have one of your men take this back to Florence as fast as possible. It needs to go to a man named Biagio Buonaccorsi.”

“Are you sure you should be writing him? So soon after your daughter was taken?”

“It’s encrypted. I need to assure Marietta that Primerana’s safe. I’m sure she’s frantic.” Niccolò scooped his little girl up with one arm, pulling her onto his unwounded thigh. “If she’s… well.”

Volpe folded the letter and tucked it into his cape before reaching across the desk to take his lover’s hand. “We’ll find out, _tesoro_. Until then, you need rest.”

“There’s too much to do. We need recruits to replace the men we lost.”

“Ezio can take care of it,” Volpe said firmly. “Niccolò, you’re hurt, and you have Primerana to look after. Please. Let me take you back upstairs.”

Machiavelli sighed, running a hand over his short crop of hair and glancing down at the little girl in his arms. She tilted her head back and blinked before giggling, tugging on his shirt.

“Papa.”

A smile softened his features, and he ducked his head to kiss her on both cheeks. “Hello, sweetheart. Would you like to go read a book?”

“Yes!”

“Alright. Gilberto, help me up.”

Volpe rolled his eyes and slid beneath Machiavelli’s arm, pulling him to his feet. They shuffled up the stairs, Primerana babbling eagerly about a story Claudia had told her yesterday while Niccolò nodded along. Volpe had set up a cot in the younger man’s study; it wasn’t overwhelmingly comfortable, but it got Primerana away from the sight of the wounded and gave the little family some modicum of privacy.

“Papa, down!” She kicked her legs, sliding down his lean frame and hitting the ground running, toddling over to the cot and sitting down before pulling a thick, leather-bound tome out from beneath his pillow. “Icarus!”

Volpe snorted, lowering Niccolò onto the cot and taking a seat beside him. “You’re reading her mythology?”

“She likes it,” Machiavelli said defensively, accepting the book and kissing the little girl’s head as she scrambled into his lap. “Can you find our page, love?”

“Yes!” Holding the book upside-down, she opened it to a random page and settled back against his chest, bouncing her feet up and down. “Icarus flew!”

“For a little while.” Niccolò righted the book and wrapped his arms around his daughter, resting his chin on her head and beginning to read. After a moment’s hesitation, Volpe laid his head upon his young lover’s shoulder and closed his eyes. A pause—and then Niccolò slipped a hand into his, squeezing his fingers.

“I love you.”

It was murmured so quietly Volpe didn’t think he’d heard it—not really. But when he lifted his head, eyes wide, Niccolò stopped his reading just long enough to kiss him, his mouth quirking into a wry grin before he looked back down at their book.

Stunned, Gilberto settled back down, tracing his thumb gently over Niccolò’s knee, and listened to the story about Icarus.  

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The thief known as la Volpe didn’t want to wake up. Not ever. He was warm, for starters, and comfortable. He had a blanket around his shoulders, a soft pillow beneath his head, and the body of the man he loved pressed against his front.

In a few hours’ time, Marietta Corsini Machiavelli would be in Rome.

Volpe stirred and opened his eyes. Niccolò was sound asleep, both arms wrapped around his little daughter. The sight of them made the master thief’s heart ache. He sat up slowly, careful not to disturb them, and pulled down the coverlet to examine Machiavelli’s wounded thigh. The white linens were smeared with red and an odd yellow. Frowning, Volpe touched a hand to the back of Niccolò’s neck, wincing at the heat.

“Machia.” He shook his young lover’s shoulder, smoothing his hair back from his brow. “ _Tesoro_. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Niccolò’s voice was muffled, his mouth pressed into Primerana’s hair.

“We need to clean your wound.”

“Later. She’s not awake yet.”

“I don’t think it can wait.”

“She couldn’t sleep last night. Nightmares. Let her rest.”

Volpe blew out a sigh, sitting back against the wall and rubbing his eyes. “You’re exhausting.”

“Mm. Go back to sleep.”

The thief shook his head, sliding a hand into Machiavelli’s hair. The young man would never admit it, but Volpe knew it soothed his anxieties. “You’re burning up, love.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Call me that. Touch me.” Niccolò opened his eyes, looking over his shoulder at his lover. “Marietta doesn’t know about us.”

“Relax. I’m not fool enough to love you in front of your wife.” Volpe traced a thumb along the strong line of Niccolò’s jaw. “Where are you going to send her?”

“To Forli. They should be safe there, at least until I can arrange for passage into Germany.”

“Will they be alright on their own?”

“Biagio is going with them. He’ll make sure they’re safe.” Niccolò looked down at his daughter, stroking her hair when she stirred, her eyelids fluttering. “I’ve been away from her for too long. God. Pathetic excuse for a father.”

“God is? I’ll say.”

Niccolò snorted, pressing his face into his hand. “Do you ever stop?”

“You know I don’t.” Volpe nestled back against his lover, trailing soft kisses along Machiavelli’s shoulder. “She adores you, Machia. And I’ve never seen you smile the way you do for her.” He lowered his eyes, tracing a fingertip along the nape of Niccolò’s neck. “Never.”

“Papa?”

Volpe sat up quickly, hiking up the coverlet to hide the bulge in his pants (he had, after all, spent the night with Niccolò’s warm ass pressed against his front). Primerana was rubbing her eyes, sitting upright and blinking at her father.

“Morning.”

“Good morning, _piccina_.” He smiled when she leaned down to kiss his cheek. “How did you sleep?”

The little girl shrugged, tapping her toes together. Niccolò tried to push himself upright and fell back to the cot with a grunt, cradling a hand to his head.

“Oh, f—uh. Gilberto, can you…?”

“I told you, you need tending.” Volpe swung his legs off the cot and got to his feet. “I’m going to get Claudia. Primerana, will you watch over your papa for me?”

She brightened, nodding and patting Machiavelli’s head. “Yes!”

Machiavelli’s face softened. “God, you’re cute. Alright, fine. I shall reluctantly wait here.”

Volpe snorted, pulling on his cloak. “As if you have a choice.”

“Of course. By the way, what’s that in your hose?”

The thief bit his thumb at his lover, leaving him snickering on the cot, and headed into the hallway. Headquarters was stirring, assassins returning from their early training. A few novices passed Volpe with bowed heads and a murmur. Unnecessary though it was, he didn’t mind the show of reverence.

“Claudia.” He grabbed hold of the doorjamb that led into the kitchen, offering the young Auditore his most charming smile. “I wonder if you’d help me dress Machiavelli’s wound.”

“I told him to stay off of it,” she said, wiping her sweaty hair from her brow. She was bent over the brazier, boiling fresh bandages, by the looks of it. “Has it festered?”

“I’m no expert, but I think so. Do you need help?”

“No—hey, Gallo! Come watch this!—I’ll be up in a moment, don’t let him try to get up.”

Volpe nodded and departed, wisely deciding to avoid her while she was on the warpath. He’d never admit it to her face, but with Ezio and Machiavelli constantly injured or absent, Claudia’s care was the only thing holding the hideout together these days. Their Brotherhood would have fallen apart without her.

“One. Two. Three. Mm…”

“Four?”

“Four! Five, nine, seven…”

“You mean six, _piccina_.”

“Five, nine, six…”

Volpe grinned, opening the door to Niccolò’s study. Primerana had found herself a pile of books and was practicing counting, mumbling a number and placing her a little finger on the spine of each as she went. Niccolò was smiling, propped up on one elbow and accepting the books Primerana handed over once they’d been counted. For a moment, Volpe hovered in the doorway, watching them, a strange weight settling in his heart, something akin to pain. Niccolò didn’t smile like that. He just didn’t.

“Gilberto?”

The thief shook himself and approached the cot. “The learning never stops, hm?”

“Never. She’s learning to read, too.”

“Really? I didn’t learn until—Christ, I was sixteen or seventeen, I think.”

“You were once so young?” Machiavelli said, mock-surprised. “Funny, I always imagine that you just appeared somewhere, fully grown.”

Volpe snorted, taking advantage of Primerana’s distractedness to stroke Niccolò’s nape, his gaze softening. “I remember you at eighteen. All that passion, all that fire, shored up in that sweet young body.” He smiled when he felt his lover shiver beneath his touch, and slid a hand up his front, beneath his shirt.

“Volpe,” Niccolò hissed, pushing the questing hand away. “Not now. And will you please do something about your… you know!”

The thief sighed, frowning down at his crotch. “It’s nearly gone down.”

“Well, cover yourself, at least!” Niccolò threw a blanket over him before Primerana could see. “Christ, there’s a baby in the room!”

Volpe snickered, pulling the blanket off his head and holding it up, making a screen between them and the little girl so he could lean in and gently kiss the younger man. “You know how dearly I love you, don’t you, _tesoro_?”

“Yes,” Machiavelli grumbled, sliding a hand into Volpe’s dark hair, his expression brooding. “Gilberto. If you love me, then there is something I must ask of you.”

“Anything.”

The assassin paused, chewing on his lower lip. “I want you to be kind to Marietta.”

“What?”

“I know it will be hard for you to meet her. I’m sorry for that.” Niccolò lowered his eyes, tracing a thumb over Volpe’s proud collarbone. “But she’s a sweet girl, and fragile at that. It would mean a great deal to me if you could remain your charming self.”

The thief released a long, low sigh, listening to Primerana count for several seconds. In all honesty, he’d planned on being away from the hideout while Machiavelli arranged for his family to leave. He’d stay, though, if Niccolò needed his support. “Alright.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll treat her as gently as if I would if she were my own.”

Niccolò smiled, cupping Volpe’s jaw and drawing him closer for a kiss. “Thank you. I owe you.”

“Damn right.” Volpe nipped his lower lip—a punishment—and lowered the blanket, smiling when Primerana looked up at them inquiringly. “How high can you count, sweetheart?”

“Twelve,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Impressive!”

“What is?”

They all looked up when Claudia came into the room, carrying an armload of fresh linens. She took a seat on the cot, beckoning Machiavelli toward her and uncorking a bottle of wine.

“Primerana can count to twelve now.” Volpe pulled the little girl into his side, placing a hand over her eyes while Claudia helped her patient undress, covering his nudity with a blanket. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes!”

“Bravo, dearest, that’s wonderful.” Claudia handed Machiavelli a piece of leather. He took it between his teeth and bit down, squeezing his eyes shut as she peeled the bandages back from his wound. Volpe choked; the smell was awful.

Primerana wrinkled her nose; the thief felt her eyelashes batting his palm when she blinked. “What’s that?”

“Nothing, _piccina_ ,” Niccolò said through gritted teeth, hurriedly clamping down on the leather again when Claudia upended the wine over his leg. He pressed his face into the nearest pillow, grinding his forehead into the floor through the soft cushion.

“It’s festered,” Volpe murmured, pulling Primerana a little closer.

“We’ll need to bleed him.” Claudia sat back on her heels, running a hand through her hair. “You should take Primerana out.”

“No—you take her. Let me tend to him.” Volpe lifted Primerana and set her in Claudia’s arms, making sure to keep the girl’s eyes covered. “ _Piccina_ , you’re going to go with Claudia for a bit, alright? She’s going to fix you some lunch.”

Primerana huffed, trying to push Claudia’s hand away from her eyes. “Papa?”

“Go with Claudia, sweetheart.” Niccolò reached for her, brushing a thumb over her chubby cheek. “I’ll come get you in a few minutes.” He gave Claudia a nod, and she got to her feet, shooting Volpe a last look before leaving the room. Machiavelli lay back on the cot, gripping his hair. “Alright. Do it.”

Volpe retrieved his dagger from his cloak, heating the blade in the brazier for a few tense, silent moments. He settled back down at Niccolò’s side, sliding a sheet of linen beneath his thigh and holding his breath against the smell of foul humours.

“It will hurt.”

“I know.” Machiavelli gripped his lover’s wrist, taking a few steadying breaths. “I’m ready.”

The thief swallowed and lifted his knife. After several aborted attempts, he rested the sharp edge against the younger man’s swollen flesh, chewing on his lower lip. Machiavelli’s grip on him tightened.

“It’s alright, Gilberto.”

Volpe didn’t meet his gaze. Couldn’t. With slow precision, he cut open the stitches. The wound opened and welled with blood, but the pestilence remained. Steeling himself, Volpe pressed the blade downward and cut into the man he loved. Machiavelli arched, the leather between his teeth not quite muffling his shout, his nails digging into Volpe’s arm. The thief froze, trembling, grabbing a cut of linen and pressing it against the wound when bloody pus began to flow free.  Delaying would only make it worse, and he cut deeper, trying not to hear his beloved’s screams.

An hour passed—an hour of cutting, pressing, cleaning, draining—before the blood that spilled onto the linens was red and pure. Volpe stitched and bound the wound, breathing a long, slow sigh when the bandages stayed white.

“Niccolò?” He washed his hands in the basin before bending over his young lover, taking Niccolò’s pale face in his hands. “It’s over, _tesoro_. It’s done.” He sponged the sweaty brow with a damp rag, chewing on his lower lip. “Say something.”

“...Like what?”

Volpe smiled, leaning down to rest his forehead against Niccolò’s chest. “Christ, don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry…” Niccolò slid a hand into Volpe’s dark curls, blinking blearily up at the ceiling. “Ugh. Shit. Where is Primerana?”

“Claudia has her. No, shh, lay down,” Volpe murmured, resting a hand on Niccolò’s shoulder when he tried to sit up. “Rest now, love. We’ll look after her.”

“Marietta will be here soon. She can’t see me like this.”

“It can’t be helped. I’m sure she’ll just be glad to see you and the baby are safe.” Volpe covered Niccolò with a blanket, running a hand over the young man’s short crop of hair. “At least try and sleep—just until the fever breaks. Hm? For me.”

Machiavelli grumbled, dropping his head back against the pillow. “Fine. For you.”

“Good.” Volpe made to get up, pausing when the young man grabbed his wrist. “What is it?”

“Just… stay here a bit.”

The thief raised his eyebrows. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Niccolò scowled, tugging on Volpe’s sleeve. “Please lay down and stop talking.”

Bemused, Volpe did as he was asked, stretching out on the small cot and wrapping himself around Machiavelli’s back. Niccolò clasped the hand that rested against his chest, bringing the thief’s scarred knuckles to his mouth and releasing a low sigh.

“I’m sorry, Gilberto.”

“For what?”

“For many things.”

Volpe blinked and decided against saying anything else, pressing a soft kiss to the heated flesh of Machiavelli’s nape and tugging his young lover closer, holding him tight. He was content to let the morning slip away like this. Hell, he’d be happy to spend the rest of his life like this.

Niccolò’s breathing evened as he slid into sleep; the bleeding had left him exhausted. The heat of his feverish body made Volpe sweat, but he pushed his discomfort aside, letting himself slip in and out of consciousness. He lost track of how long they lay there, and didn’t care. Outside of the hideout was an insidious order that wanted them dead, a city full of people depending on them for liberation, a girl with a wedding ring on her finger. Here there was only them. Just them.

“Volpe.”

The thief stirred, rubbing his face against Machiavelli’s shoulder with a grumble. Someone prodded him again, and he cracked an eye open, scowling blearily up at the intruder.

“What?”

Ezio nudged him. “Machiavelli’s family is here. Bartolomeo picked them up at the gate.”

Volpe lay still for several seconds, processing. He sat up with slow deliberation, careful not to wake the man beside him, and touched a hand to Machiavelli’s forehead. His skin was clammy but cool.

“Alright. I’ll meet them.” Volpe got to his feet, straightening his clothes and pulling his hood over his head. He and Ezio left the study, closing the door behind them, and headed down the stairs.

Ezio paused on the landing, placing a hand on Volpe’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. This must be hard for you.”

Volpe considered shaking his hand off, but found himself unable to do so. “Did you see her?”

“Marietta? Yes, we met.” The assassin canted his head, watching Volpe with dark, keen eyes. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.” The thief offered him a weary smile and patted his hand. “Maybe have a bottle of wine ready tonight.”

“Certainly.” Ezio gave him a shake and nodded toward the stairs. “Come on. They’re waiting.”

Volpe nodded, turned on his heel—and collided with something hard and fast. He fell back on the stairs with a grunt, blinking stars from his eyes.

“Ow—shit—sorry—” Hands took hold of him, pulling him upright, and he found himself staring up at a younger Niccolò. “Are you alright?”

“I…” For once, la Volpe was at a loss for words. “Who…?”

The young man frowned, grey eyes searching, and then his expression brightened. “Oh, God—you’re _Volpe_!”

“Er—yes?”

“Uncle’s told me all about you!” The youth grabbed his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “You’re the greatest thief to ever roam Florence! Christ, if I’d known I would be meeting you here—”

“Sorry, who are you?”

Ezio chuckled, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Giovanni Vernacci. He’s Machiavelli’s nephew.”

Volpe stared. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

The boy grinned, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. The Machiavelli blood, it seemed, ran strong; Volpe felt, for all the world, like he was reliving the day he’d first set eyes on his beloved.

“Gio?” Another man jogged up the stairs, pushing his dark curls from his forehead. “Did you—oh.” He hurried forward and stuck out his hand, offering Volpe a wide grin. “Biagio Buonaccorsi, assistant to the seat of the second chancellor of Florence.”

“Volpe,” the thief said, shaking the other man’s hand as quickly as possible before sidling back toward the stairs. “I, er… I think I’ll—”

“Where’s Machia?” Biagio cut in, looking at Ezio with raised eyebrows. “Does he know Marietta’s here?”

“He’s sleeping, he’s—”

“What? In the middle of the day?”

“No—he’s ill.”

“Eh? Had some bad fish?”

Volpe blinked twice, frowned, and excused himself, grabbing Ezio by the arm and dragging him away from the newcomers, who stared after them curiously.

“Do they not know?” he demanded in a hiss, cupping his hand to his mouth to keep them from reading his lips.

“Know what?”

“About the _Brotherhood_.”

“Oh.” Ezio rubbed the back of his neck. “Er. I don’t think so.”

“Are you serious?!”

“It’s up to Machiavelli what he tells his family.”

“The man was wounded fighting Borgia guards after that bastard kidnapped his daughter, and they think he’s here on some—what, on some diplomatic mission?” Volpe tugged his hood a little closer to his face, shaking his head. “This is madness. How many of them are there?”

“Well—Biagio and Giovanni, Marietta, Biagio’s wife, and a child, I think?”

“In the hideout. Right now.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Volpe rubbed his forehead. “God dammit… I’m going to stay in the city tonight.”

“Don’t leave me,” Ezio said, just a touch too quickly. “Volpe, please. Machiavelli needs you.”

“He has his wife here, he’ll be fine. I’d rather not—” Volpe turned to leave and stopped with his foot in the air, his escape route blocked by a young woman.

“Er. Hello.” The girl dropped into as graceful a curtsy as she could manage with little Primerana in her arms. “Are you la Volpe?”

The thief stared. It had been a long time since he’d had an eye for women, but the girl before him was a vision. Gold hair tumbled to her slim shoulders, framing a sweet face. Her eyes were blue, blue as the sea, her lips a warm pink, soft and supple looking.

Volpe’s stomach turned over. “Oh, no. Please don’t tell me you’re Marietta.”

“Um—yes, I am.” The girl blinked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Marietta Machiavelli, _Signore_.”

With a groan, Volpe dropped his face into his hands, shaking his head. “God _dammit_.”

 

* * *

 

“I won’t go.”

Niccolò grimaced, extending a hand to brush his wife’s cheek. “Marietta, sweetheart, please—”

“No,” she said curtly, flinching away from his touch and holding Primerana a little closer. “Absolutely not. Forget it.”

“It won’t be for long, I promise. It’s not safe in Florence.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why _not_?”

Niccolò sighed and pushed himself more upright, wincing at the sharp pain in his leg. “It’s… delicate.” He scowled over at la Volpe when the thief sniggered from his perch in the corner of the study. “If you have something to add, Gilberto…”

“Oh, no, not me.” Volpe crossed his ankles, grinning. “Just enjoying the show.”

“I’m not sold on this either, Machia,” Biagio said. His wife, Margherita—Niccolò’s sister—and their little daughter Rosabella sat at his side. They were all piled on Niccolò’s cot, save for Giovanni, who was pacing the room anxiously. “Germany is a long way from home, and very different from Florence. Besides, if we’re in danger, we should be consulting with the Signoria.”

“This is—” Machiavelli paused, glancing over his shoulder at Volpe, who shrugged. “Margherita, Marietta—will you take the children out, please?”

“What? No.” Marietta shook her head. “I have a say in this, Niccolò.”

“Of course.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Of course you do. But I must speak with Biagio for a moment. Privately. I’ll send for you when we’ve finished, and explain everything. Alright?”  
She frowned, still wary, but nodded and got to her feet. Margherita arched an eyebrow at her little brother and followed suit, beckoning to Giovanni, who cast his uncle a look somewhat akin to that of a kicked dog before shuffling out after the women.

“This is bigger than the Signoria,” Machiavelli said, lowering his voice enough that Biagio had to lean forward to hear him (Volpe, of course, had no such problem, and remained perched comfortably in the corner). “There’s something I need to tell you, _amico_. I’m afraid you won’t be happy to hear it.”

A frown pulled at Biagio’s cheerful features. “What is it?” He glanced down at the blankets, which hid the sight of Machiavelli’s injury. “Does it—er—have anything to do with…?”  
Machiavelli nodded and reached beneath his pillow, withdrawing his blade and bracer.

“Niccolò,” Volpe said sharply, getting to his feet, but the young man lifted a hand to silence him, and the thief returned sulkily to his seat.

“This was my father’s, and his father’s before him.” Machiavelli placed the hidden blade in Biagio’s hands. “It is the mark of an assassin, a member of an ancient order and a revived brotherhood.”

Biagio blinked, turning the weapon over in his hands several times before shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”

“This is what I’ve been doing in Rome. The diplomacy issues were a pretense. I’m here to ensure the downfall of the Borgia.”

“The Borgia?” Biagio frowned, looking up at his friend, his gaze clouded with doubt and what Volpe recognized as the first hints of fear. “But… they’re hardly of concern. Not to Florence.”

“I told you, this is bigger than Florence. There is a twisted conspiracy in this city, Biagio, and it threatens this entire world, not just our Italy.” Machiavelli lowered his eyes, folding his hands in his lap. “It was because of my work for the Brotherhood that Primerana was taken, that all of you are now in danger. I’m sorry.”

Biagio sat very still, tracing a thumb over the worn edges of the bracer. After several moments he got to his feet, dropped the weapon on the bed, and turned on his heel, departing the room without bothering to close the door behind him. Machiavelli released a long, slow sigh, dropping his face into his hands.

“I don’t know what to do.” He let himself be pulled into Volpe’s arms, keeping his face hidden. “I don’t know what to do, Gilberto.”

“You’ll find a way.” Volpe brushed his mouth over the proud brow, holding his young lover closer. “You always do, _tesoro_.” He ran a thumb along the nape of Machiavelli’s neck, a smile quirking his features. “Biagio is an interesting character.”

The assassin chuckled. “So he is.”

“Was he your friend before or after he was your sister’s husband?”

“Before, the snake.” Machiavelli lifted his head and took hold of Volpe’s shirt, tugging him in for a soft, slow kiss that left the thief almost panting with want. “Marietta will expect me in bed with her tonight. Before that, though, I want you to use your limitless powers of creativity to fuck me without moving my leg.”

Volpe grinned, stealing another kiss—his favorite bounty—before ducking his head to nip at Machiavelli’s collar. “Delightful. I do love a challenge.”

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

“Does it hurt?”

“Not so much, no. Not anymore.”

“Mm.” Marietta shifted, resting her cheek against her husband’s shoulder. “Tell me again how you were injured.”

“It was an accident. Ezio and I were practicing swords.”

“What use does a diplomat have for swords?”

Niccolò slid a hand into her hair, examining the thick golden strands between his fingers. He and Marietta were entwined atop a proper bed, her slender frame fitted neatly against his. They’d been given a set of rooms usually reserved for comrades visiting from other cities, but Claudia insisted that for a husband and wife to sleep on a cot on the floor would be the height of impropriety.

“This theater of politics is dangerous, dearest,” he said at length. “Fortune smiles on the prepared.”

The young woman propped herself on her elbow, frowning down at him. “You try to distract me with pretty words, as always. Do you think me such a fool, _Messer_ Machiavelli?”

“It’s Niccolò.” He rested a hand against her face, brushing a thumb over the pink softness of her cheek. “You know I want you to call me by my name.”

“You won’t call me by mine,” she said, leaning closer to him, both an invitation and a challenge. “Dearest. Sweetheart. Love. You hide behind silly pleasantries, words you think a husband ought to say to his wife.” The girl took his face in her hands, touching his mouth. “I hear love from these lips, but I do not feel it, nor do I see it in your eyes.”

“L—Marietta. Please.”

“Don’t.” The girl shook her head. “You can lie to the world, _Messer_ Machiavelli, but you will find your loving wife much harder to deceive.”

“My loving wife thinks so poorly of me.” He pushed her hair from her brow, offering her his most charming smile. “What can I do to improve your low opinion?”

“Tell me the truth, to start. What happened to your leg?”

Machiavelli sighed, folding an arm behind his head, keeping his free hand busy in her hair. No wonder Volpe enjoyed playing with his hair so much; it was soothing. “It was an accident. Ezio and I were out hunting. I fell from my horse, and my sword slipped from its scabbard.”

“Why did you have a sword while hunting?”

“Boars,” he replied, shrugging. “They’re all over the countryside here, in the forests. A bow and arrow aren’t enough to fell them. Savage beasts.”

She raised one blonde eyebrow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“If you must know, I was embarrassed. It takes a special kind of fool to fall from a horse after riding all his life.”

His wife pursed her lips. “Indeed.”

Machiavelli offered her a languid smile, tugging on her soft curls. “Even I can be a fool,  sweetheart.”

“A more obvious statement I’ve never heard.”

“Ah. You wound me.” He slid an arm around her waist and tugged her closer. “Come. What else can I do to make you think better of me?”

A pause—and then a sly hand stole beneath the blankets, the soft pads of her fingers caressing his member. Machiavelli exhaled shakily into her hair, hips shifting upward into her touch.

“You can behave as a man should when abed with his wife.” Her mouth touched his jaw. “ _Mio caro_.”

He didn’t have a response to that, and in any case, words would be a waste. His leg ached too much to take her, but there were many ways to fulfill her request. With gentle touches he coaxed her onto her back, leaning down to press slow kisses to the warm plumpness of her mouth, swallowing her sweet whimpers when he slid a hand between her thighs.

“Niccolò—”

“Hush.” He dropped his mouth to the warm hollow of her throat, hiking up her nightgown and stroking her slick sex. Her hips arched against his hand, eyelids fluttering, a soft pink tinge spreading across her cheeks. She was always like this in bed, as sweet and shy as she’d been on their wedding night. Small hands touched him cautiously; he leaned into her, encouraging her with quiet murmurs against her mouth while he dipped his fingers inside her, smiling when she mewled for him.

“Please,” she mumbled, cupping her hands to his neck and kissing him. “I’ve missed you.”

He swallowed a pang of guilt and took gentle possession of her mouth once more before sliding down the bed, kissing a hot path down her body. Pushing her skirts up over her knees, he ran his mouth along her thigh, pausing just long enough to tease her before replacing his fingers with his tongue. She came apart around him with a sigh, her fingers twining through his hair to pull him closer.

The thing about being with Marietta was that it was difficult to imagine her as anyone else. He’d tried, one more than one occasion, to envision Volpe stretched out beneath him when he and his wife were abed, but penetrating a woman was too unlike penetrating a man. He couldn’t take Marietta the way he could Volpe. He’d had his share of wild women, but she was different, delicate and fragile. Sex for her was something sacred, something close to worship, and it wounded her deeply when her husband treated it as anything else. Nothing doused his arousal more quickly.

With Volpe it was always visceral, heated. They accepted their lust, embraced it, let it fuel every carnal want. They were miserably desirous of one another and always had been. With Volpe it was about union, completion. With Marietta… Niccolò felt like he was fulfilling an obligation.

He closed his eyes, using his tongue to tease her open before sucking on her sex. His mind wandered, but her scent and taste made his cock stand up against his stomach. He paused only when he thought he heard the door open, before Marietta’s hand guided him back into place. The pain in his leg kept his hips still, keeping him from seeking the friction he needed; instead he slid a hand down to grip his erection, pulling on himself hard and fast while Marietta came against his mouth.

“Let me.” She tugged on him, panting, pushing him onto his back and lowering her head to his hips.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Marietta—you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she said, cutting him off, and he groaned when her soft mouth sank down around his length.

Keeping his hips still was a brutal chore, but he couldn’t very well fuck into her throat the way he could into Volpe’s. One simply didn’t do that to one’s wife. Machiavelli covered his eyes with one hand, his breathing labored. He wouldn’t let his thoughts stray. He wouldn’t be unfaithful to Marietta while she was in bed with him, he wouldn’t—

Gilberto. Those violet eyes, those dusky features, dark curls and the warm curve of his mouth. Oh, God, that mouth. Wide and sensual, sinfully talented. Volpe was every bit the animal he claimed to be; he was all mouth in bed, teeth and tongue and lips. Hands were for pinning, grasping; his mouth was for caressing, fucking. It was too easy for Machiavelli to imagine that mouth on his cock, sucking him, those eyes gazing up at him with a hot fusion of adoration and raw, needy desire. Volpe always swallowed, though he professed to dislike the taste, because consumption was part of their sex.

Oh, shit. _Swallowing_. Machiavelli gently pushed Marietta away, taking his spit-slick cock in hand and finishing himself off with a few hard pumps of his fist, grunting as he spilled on his stomach. The girl sat up, breathing fast, and a gentle kiss found his mouth, too timid for his liking.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, caressing the softness of her cheek.

She frowned, her brows drawing together. “For what?”

Niccolò held her close, tucking her head beneath his chin. “Do you love me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Of course I do.”

Oh, God. Poor girl. Machiavelli wrapped his arms around her, hushing her when she questioned him. She’d given him a home and a beautiful baby daughter, and he couldn’t even give her his twisted, cynical heart in return.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

“I’ve been laid up for two damn days. Give it here, Ezio.”

The assassin frowned but reluctantly offered up the crutch. Machiavelli leaned his weight upon it with a stifled groan, wincing at the sharp pain in his leg, and tried a few hobbling steps. When he managed to stay upright, he turned on Ezio with a triumphant grin.

“Ha.”

“ _Ha_ , he says,” Volpe commented from his perch on a nearby bench, watching his lover wobble back and forth with a smirk. Machiavelli bit his thumb at him before struggling across the courtyard and back, batting off Ezio’s hands when he reached out to help.

“I’m fine, stop it.”

“You’re barely staying on your feet.”

“Weak as a little fawn,” Volpe said, his voice crooning.

Machiavelli ignored them both. The sun was bright overhead, and he wasn’t lying on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to Marietta chatter. God bless that girl, but he could only take so much gossip about Signoria members’ wives.

A few red-faced novices stuck their heads out the door and beckoned to Ezio, looking sheepish, and he excused himself with a sigh, leaving Machiavelli and Volpe alone in the courtyard. Niccolò glanced over at the thief, who had immersed himself in his lover’s copy of Titus Livy and seemed to be avoiding eye contact.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading.” Volpe didn’t look up. “Are you blind as well as lame?”

“I meant, why are you ignoring me?”

The thief pursed his lips. “Then why didn’t you ask that instead?”

Grunting with the effort, Machiavelli limped over to the bench and lowered himself onto it with difficulty, rubbing his aching thigh. “Christ, Gilberto, what shit in your soup?”

Volpe snapped the book shut so abruptly that Niccolò jumped. “I saw you.”

“What?”

“This morning.” The thief turned his hard gaze on his lover, his dark eyes burning. “I saw you with your face buried between her legs.”

Machiavelli blinked, staring back at the older man, at an utter loss for words. His heart sank. So he hadn’t imagined the door opening. “I…”

“Don’t.” Volpe sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Just don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Look—we’re married. Marietta and I are _married_ , and we have a child together. You must have realized I’d taken her to bed before.”

“Fucked her, you mean? Yes. If there is a child who looks so much like you, Niccolò, I thought it safe to assume that your cock had something to do with it. And unless there is another woman I should know about, I also assume that it found warm refuge in that girl’s cunt.”

Machiavelli seized a handful of the older man’s shirt. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“She’s my wife!”

“A woman you fuck and have children by is a concubine, actually,” Volpe retorted, raising his eyebrows and pushing Niccolò’s hand away.

“We were married before our families and before God.”

The thief snorted, crossing one leg over the other. “As if that means shit to you.”

“It does, actually.” Machiavelli got to his feet, irked beyond words that he had to lean so heavily upon the crutch to do so. “This petulance doesn’t suit you.”

“Is it petulant to be angry when I see the man I love entwined with a woman?” Volpe stood as well, seizing the younger man’s shirt when he turned to leave. “Don’t walk away from me, Machiavelli!”

“Oh, am I Machiavelli now?” Niccolò tried to pull himself from his lover’s grip and failed; his injury had left him weak and shaky. “I do my duties in the marital bed and I’m not your _tesoro_ anymore? How quickly your heart is won and lost.”

“How quick—” Volpe broke off with a growl. “You ass. I’ve spent fifteen _years_ loving you.”

“For all the good it’s done us! Fifteen years of hiding and sneaking about and barely avoiding being discovered—you do remember Savonarola, yes? The one who saw sodomites burned at the stake? I had a _grand_ time criticizing him in open forum while his dogs sniffed around my home looking for traces of _you_!”

“So long as we’re speaking of hiding, I might point out that you didn’t even bother to tell me you had a child. You didn’t think that I might like to know? That, perhaps, I might like to meet your daughter?”

“Leave Primerana out of this!”

“What? Leave Primerana out of her father’s sordid affair? Hide me from her the way you hid her from me?”

“Stop this, Gilberto.”

“Stop what? Talking of her? Talking _to_ her?” Volpe laughed, shaking his head. “Shall I tell her what it is you do here in Rome? Tell her that Papa likes being fucked in the ass?”

Machiavelli swung without thinking, hitting Volpe across the jaw. His leg spasmed, and they both hit the ground; the crutch clattered onto the stone walkway. For several long seconds, neither spoke nor moved. Machiavelli squeezed his eyes shut when blackness began to gather at the corners of his vision, the pain in his leg so overwhelming he could scarcely breathe for fear he might cry out.

“....Ugh. Fuck. Niccolò?”

He couldn’t answer. Wouldn’t. It didn’t matter which.

“Niccolò.” Hands grasped his shoulders, tried to roll him over, but he wound a hand into the grass and held firm, his face pressed into the ground. “ _Tesoro_ …”

“Don’t,” Machiavelli bit out. “Don’t.”

“I—”

“I said _don’t_.” He pushed the thief away, extended a shaking hand and grasping the crutch, using it to sit up. After several seconds’ pause—sure, for one breathless moment, that he would vomit—he got to his feet, trembling badly.

“You’re bleeding.”

“F-Fuck off.” Niccolò turned and made his unsteady way across the courtyard, throwing off the arm that encircled his waist. Volpe stopped, and Machiavelli felt those dark eyes burning into the back of his skull even after he’d reached the door. It took all of his iron will not to look back.

“Niccolò?”

Damn it all. He grit his jaw and turned to look at his sister, standing behind him in the hall, her arms full of her little daughter. “Margherita. Good morning.”

“Good morning yourself.” She approached him, lifting a hand to touch his face. “Why are you so dirty?”

“Wrestling.”

“On an injured leg?”

“...Yes.”

“Hm.” Margherita bent down and set Rosabella on her feet. “Go find your papa, sweetheart.”

“Okay.” Rosabella giggled when Niccolò ruffled her hair before turning on her heel and scampering down the hall, her curls bouncing on her shoulders.

Niccolò smiled after her for a moment. “I love that little girl, sis.”

“I know.” Margherita was frowning at him, looking him up and down. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied, but his faux innocence had never been enough to fool her. Her grey eyes—so like his, like their father’s—flashed.

“Come with me,” she said at length, and turned down the hall, marching toward his study. Perplexed, but not daring to argue, he followed her, stepping through the door when she held it open for him.

“Sis—what—”

“Let me see it.”

“What?”

“Your leg.” She closed the door, placing her hands on her hips. “Let me see.”

He scoffed and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m well tended.”

“By whom? Marietta? That girl fainted at the sight of her own virgin’s blood.”

“No,” Niccolò said, his cheeks growing hot. “Volpe bound it for me.”

“The thief?” She lifted her dark eyebrows. “The one you’re fucking?”

Niccolò stared at her, remembering too late to close his mouth. “How…”

“Oh, please, Nico.” She waved a hand, taking his crutch and helping him into his desk chair. “I’m your sister. As if you could hide something like that from me.”

“But…”

“But nothing.” Margherita frowned, pressing her fingertips against his thigh. “Does that hurt?”

“No—ouch!”

“Liar.”

“You did that on purpose!” He scowled at her when she turned away, rubbing his leg with a wince. “Well? Aren’t you going to lecture me?”

“About what? Your inability to look after yourself?”

“No.”

“Ah—about you sleeping with a man while your wife looks after your daughter in another city?” Margherita stepped over to the brazier and picked up a pitcher of water, dipping her fingers in to test the heat. “I’ve half a mind to, but for whatever reason, the only words in this world you don’t pay any heed are the ones that come out of my mouth.” So saying, she crossed the room, gave him a dark look—and threw the water in his face.

For a second he didn’t move, blinking at her while water dripped from his hair and into his eyes—and then he began to splutter, mopping his face on his soaked shirt and swearing.

“Margherita! What the shitting hell—”

“You’re lucky that wasn’t a chamber pot, that’s what I was looking for!”

“A _chamber pot_?! Are you out of your damn mind?”

“It’s the least you deserve! Fucking hell, Niccolò! You’re my brother and I love you, but you can be such an _idiot_! How long have you been sleeping with him?”

“Sis—”

“How long?!”

“Fourteen—fifteen years!”

“Which is it?”

“I’ve lost count!”

“Jesus!” Margherita took a seat, burying her face in her hands, and groaned loudly. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Nothing.” He shucked his shirt to wipe at his face with the dry back. “It’s none of your business.”

“None of my business?” She lifted her head and scowled at him. “I go to see Marietta every other day, we go to mass together, she comes over for supper, Biagio checks on her at least once a week, Rosabella and Primerana play together—so yes, Niccolò, it’s my business, because she’s _my_ family, too!”

“You know I’m here for the Brotherhood,” he snapped, pulling his shirt back over his head. “It’s not as if I’ve abandoned her to fuck around with Gilberto.”

“No, I’m sure that’s just an added bonus.” Margherita ran a hand through her hair. “Can you divorce her, at least? She doesn't deserve an unfaithful husband.”

“I doubt I could find anyone in the Vatican who might grant such a request. You may remember that the pope is the head of the Templar order?”

“Tits.”

“Tits indeed. And I don’t want to leave her. It may have been an option before, but…”

“Before?”

“Primerana. I won’t have her raised without a father, and I won’t see her go back to the Corsini, either. They’d make sure to see her forget I even exist.”

Margherita pursed her lips. “And that’s not what you want?”

He shot her a dark glare. “I love my daughter.”

“I know. But absent the responsibility of fatherhood, you and your thief could spend all of your time playing together here in Rome, could you not?”

Niccolò sat forward, grasping her hand. “Sis. I love him. I love him and I’m not sorry for it.”

She stared at him, studying his face, and sat back in her chair with a heavy sigh. “Damn. You couldn’t be your usual shitty self and just be in it for the sex?”

“Not this time, no.” He rubbed his leg. “Are you going to tell Marietta?”

“What, and break her heart? Tell her that the man she loves has been unfaithful to her since the moment she married him? No. It’s not my place, and it’s not my desire.” She chewed on her lower lip, thinking. “Did he know you were married?”

“He knew. But he didn’t know about Primerana until Cesare took her.”

“Damn. He can’t be happy with you.”

“No,” Machiavelli said, sighing. “And I just hit him.”

“Hit him?”

“Mm. In the face. He was being an ass,” he added when she raised her eyebrows. “Saying all manner of unsavory—well. He’s hurting. And I don’t suppose I blame him.”

“I suppose you couldn’t.” Margherita leaned forward and took his hands in hers. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.” He offered her a weary smile. “Nothing, sis. I know it’s a mess, but it’s mine. I’ll be the one to take care of it.”

“You’re nothing if not responsible.”

They both looked up when the door opened, and Volpe stuck his hooded head in, watching Machiavelli cautiously, gauging his reaction to his presence.

Niccolò sighed, beckoned him in with a hand. “Margherita—this is Volpe.”

She got to her feet and offered Volpe her hand, smiling when he kissed it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re still famous in Florence, I hope you know.”

“Thank you, _Madonna_.” He walked toward Niccolò and halted just short of touching him. “Um—you're soaked.”

“Margherita was teaching me a lesson in decency. And you can come closer, Gilberto,” Machiavelli said, sighing. “She knows.”

“She does?” Volpe lifted his eyebrows, glancing at Margherita in shock. The young woman smiled brightly. “Oh. Well, then. Excuse me for my forwardness in a lady’s presence, but…” And then he bent down, kissing Niccolò soundly.

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Margherita said with a snort, biting her thumb at her brother and winking before departing, closing the door behind her.

Volpe murmured and leaned forward again, catching Machiavelli’s mouth in a burning kiss and sliding a hand up his front. Niccolò broke away, disgruntled, and winced when a thigh slid between his legs and that warm mouth descended on the side of his neck.

“Gilberto—”

“Want you,” the thief murmured, and he slid his hand down the front of Niccolò’s trousers, rubbing the hot arousal he found there. “I’m sorry, _tesoro_ , for the things I said. I didn’t mean any of it. It tears me apart to see you with her. She has you as I cannot.”

“You have me, Gilberto.” Niccolò took the older man’s face in his hands, thrusting his hips up into the intimate touch between his legs. “This I swear. It’s you I love. You and no one else.” He grunted when the thief’s hand enclosed his cock, stroking him languidly. “I— _ah!_ —even think of you when I’m with her.”

Volpe’s eyes glittered with interest. “Really.”

“Almost without fail. This morning, I… _mm_ … I almost cried out for you when I came.” He gasped sharply when Volpe dropped to his knees and swallowed his cock in one easy motion. Niccolò moaned, hitching his hips forward and sliding a hand into the thief’s dark hair, pulling him closer. “I’m y-yours.”

Volpe lifted his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the straining length before him. “Prove it.”

Niccolò obliged him at once. Moving proved difficult on his wounded leg, but he managed to maneuver himself onto his front against his desk, pushing his trousers down and baring his ass to his lover. Volpe wasted no time in covering his body with his own, grinding against him with delicious grunts and reaching around to grasp his cock, pumping him hard.

“I love you,” Niccolò gasped out, pressing his forehead into the desk, hands twisting into his own hair. “Gilberto—I love you so much it hurts.”

“I know.” Volpe’s voice was soft and warm at his ear. “I know, _tesoro_.” The older man kissed his neck, marking the very top of his spine with soft bites. “If I bought you a ring, would you wear it?”

Machiavelli laughed breathlessly, clasping the hand that reached for his and pinned it to the desk. “Yes.”

“You would?”

“Everyday. Around my neck, perhaps, but it would always be with me. So _you_ would always be with me.”

Volpe growled, pleased, rutting against him harder. "I am always with you regardless."

Niccolò gasped when the pressure on his cock increased, clawing for his release, and turned his head to press his cheek into the desk—

And saw Marietta, pale-faced and open-mouthed, standing at the door.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even that sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogic conflict resolution abounds.

In addition to counting to twelve, Primerana had learned to recognize most of the letters of the Greek alphabet, knew four phrases in Latin, and could read very simple sentences in Tuscan. She knew the names of the greater Latin and Greek gods and goddesses, could recite the myth of Icarus, and had first started chirping “Papa” when she was only eight months old.

He remembered the night she was born. He had ridden back from Rome and gotten home just as Marietta had started to push, and held his sweating, sobbing wife in his arms while she delivered their child. Primerana had just been a little thing, born a month too early, and hadn’t cried when she emerged. Wiped clean of the blood and mucus, she had lain quietly in her mother’s arms, eyes closed, her small fists tucked beneath her chin. The midwives had glanced at one another and murmured fretful things under their breath; children that didn’t cry rarely lived past the first few hours.

But Primerana did. After three days of utter silence—days filled with breathless terror, with fear so profound Niccolò thought for sure he would come apart—Primerana, cradled in his arms while Marietta slept, had hiccuped, rubbed her eyes, and begun to cry. And her father, sleepless for those three days, had cried right along with her.

Niccolò turned the page, glancing down at the little girl sleeping soundly on his chest. He ducked his head, kissed her dark curls. He hadn’t really known love until Primerana had first cried that dark night, three years ago. He knew that now. He loved his assassin brothers and sisters, Florence, Biagio, and Gilberto, and even Marietta, in the strange, broken way they loved one another, but Primerana had complete and utter possession of his soul. If his little girl needed him to fall on his own sword, or exile himself from his beloved homeland, or set the Palazzo Vecchio on fire, or swear undying allegiance to the Templar cause, he would do it without pause. Nothing—not country or kinsmen or lovers—could replace his daughter, his flesh and blood.

“Give her here.”

He looked up, a little startled; he hadn’t heard Marietta walk in. “She’s sleeping. Let her rest.”

Marietta’s brown eyes—normally full of love—were hard as stone and every bit as cold. “I don’t want you touching her.”

Niccolò bristled. “She’s my daughter, Marietta.”

“I don’t want you touching her,” Marietta repeated, her voice increasing in pitch and volume. “How am I to know how far your perversion extends?”

Niccolò bit down his retort; he’d never, ever wanted to hit Marietta before this moment. Gathering Primerana in his arms, murmuring apologies against her hair when she whined, he set aside his book and got to his feet, pushing past his sullen wife and heading for the door.

“Niccolò. Wait.”

He paused and drew in a slow breath before turning to face her. “What?”

“I made a mistake.”

“And what mistake is that?”

Marietta wouldn’t hold his gaze. She looked down at her feet, her eyes filling with tears. “Falling in love with you.”

Niccolò swallowed. “Yes. Maybe you did.”

He left the room, trying not to hear the hard, broken sobs that followed him out. He still limped badly, but he gritted his teeth against the pain, struggling up the stairs and pounding a fist on the first door he came upon.

Biagio’s bearded visage was a welcome sight, but there was a wariness in his face; there remained a tension between them after their discussion about Niccolò’s involvement with the Brotherhood. “Machia—evening. What are you doing?”

“Sweetheart, will you go sit with Rosabella for a bit?” Margherita broke in, appearing at Biagio’s shoulder and offering him her sweetest smile. “She wants a story before she goes to sleep.”

“Sure.” Biagio beamed, swept down to kiss his wife on the cheek, and clapped Niccolò’s shoulder somewhat awkwardly before heading toward the second little room adjoining theirs.

“Sit,” Margherita said, indicating a chair by the fire. “And roll up your trousers, let me see your leg.”

Niccolò sat down gratefully, extending his leg with a groan and adjusting Primerana in his arms. She sniffled and tucked her face into his shoulder, her dark lashes casting shadows across her round cheeks in the firelight.

“Marietta saw you?” Margherita asked, helping Niccolò uncover his leg and beginning to cut away his dressings. “She was hysterical yesterday.”

“Yes.” Niccolò winced when she peeled away the poultice; Gilberto had cleared most of the infection, but the wound was still red and inflamed, hot to the touch. He switched Primerana to his other shoulder. “I don’t know what to do, sis.”

“Nothing much you can do, now.” Margherita frowned, pressing a hot cloth to his wound and apologizing when he inhaled sharply.

“Stay with her in Germany. I’m afraid she’ll try to leave, try to take Primerana away. Don’t let her take my daughter, Margherita, please.”

“I won’t—you know I won’t.” Margherita cupped his cheek, offering him a small, sad smile. “You’re still feverish. Stay here tonight.”

“Are you packed? Ready?”

“I don’t want to leave until you’re well again.”

Niccolò shook his head, giving her hand a squeeze. “We’re well equipped here. I’ll be fine.”

His sister shot him a flat glare as she slid fresh linens beneath his leg. “I took stock of the medical inventory today, per Claudia’s request. You have _nothing_. Aren’t there doctors in the city who are beholden to the cause?”

“Some. Borgia’s managed to cow the rest into refusing us aid. They’re terrified for their lives, and I don’t blame them.”

Margherita was quiet for a moment, binding his injury and rolling his trouser leg back down before speaking again. “Come to Germany with us.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to leave you in Italy all alone.” She looked up at him, grey eyes wide and pleading, and squeezed his hand. “Please, Nico. Mama and Papa and Prima are all gone—I couldn’t bear it if we lost you, too.”

“Totto’s staying behind in Florence, and I shall be with Volpe and Ezio, and the others.”

“Volpe and Ezio and the others aren’t a substitute for your family!”

“Sis,” he sighed, cupping her cheek, “they’re my family, too.”

Margherita’s eyes welled with tears. She got to her feet and wrapped both arms around him, holding him close. “Stupid little brother.”

“I’m sorry. You know I love you, sis. All of you.” He closed his eyes, focused on Primerana’s heartbeat against his chest, vibrant and young and strong. If he met his end fighting the Borgia, at least it would be for them—for his baby daughter and his siblings and even for the young girl who was his wife and partner, no matter how much she hated him tonight.

“Will Totto be safe?”

“He’s a man of the church. If nothing else, Borgia may see him as a weapon he can use against me. He won’t be hurt.”

Margherita sighed, stepping back and running a hand through his hair. “I wish Papa were here to make you see sense.”

“Papa would encourage me to fight, like in all the stories. You know that as well as I do.”

“Primavera, then. Why did you listen to her and not to me?”

“Primavera was smart,” he said, and grinned when his sister smacked the side of his head. “Look after Gio, won’t you?  We’re all he has left.”

“I’m staying.”

Niccolò and Margherita both jumped, looking toward the door. Giovanni bit his lip, looking down at his boots, but there was no mistaking the conviction in his voice when he spoke again.

“If you’re staying, Uncle, so am I. I’ll join the brotherhood.”

Niccolò stared at him. “Gio… no, _nipote_. I’m sorry. It’s very brave of you, but it’s not what your mother would have wanted. I swore to Primavera that I’d keep you safe.”

“That was all well and fine when she died. I was just a child.” Giovanni lifted his chin, tightening his jaw. “But I’m a man grown now. Besides, my name may be Vernacci, but I have the Machiavelli blood. My ancestral duty is to this order.”

“What is it with the men in this family and pretentious declarations?” Margherita grumbled, taking Primerana in her arms and shooting her brother a stern look. “I’ll put her to bed. Work this out.”

Niccolò sighed and nodded, gesturing to the chair she vacated. Giovanni took a seat, resting his clenched fists on his knees, his expression determined. Niccolò opened his mouth, but his nephew overrode him.

“You’ve been more of a father to me than the man who gave me his name,” Giovanni said, his voice quiet, nearly trembling. “He abandoned me the day Mama died. You didn’t. I wasn’t your responsibility, but you took me in anyway. I can’t ever repay you for that.”

“Gio,” Niccolò said gently, grasping the boy by the shoulder, “you’re my nephew, my beloved sister’s son. We’re family. Of course I wouldn’t abandon you. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do.” Giovanni cracked a wry grin. “Someone has to protect you from yourself, Uncle.”

“I want you with Primerana. I want you to ensure that she won’t forget me.”

“Margherita and Biagio will see to that. You know they will.” Giovanni shook his head. “I’m not Giovanni Vernacci anymore. I can’t ever be that man again. Maybe I never was. I want to be a Machiavelli. An assassin. Your kin.”

“You’re mine in blood even if not in name, Gio.” Niccolò sighed, running a hand over his hair. “Let me think on this. I’ll need to speak to Ezio. Our order has a history of recruiting whole families, but that’s a practice we’d like to end.”

“Why?”

“Ezio’s family was hanged for their lineage. The brotherhood wants outcasts, loners, not people who have lives and loved ones.”

“Like you?”

Niccolò blinked, then smiled, patting the younger man’s cheek. “Yes. Exactly like me. Go on, get to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“Are you well? Your leg—”

“Good _night_ , Gio.”

Giovanni smiled, abashed, and got to his feet, bidding his uncle goodnight before excusing himself. Niccolò watched his retreating back, anxiety gnawing on his guts. He was a good boy, Gio. A little irresponsible, but he was smart. Kind. People liked him. If he was being perfectly honest, his nephew reminded Niccolò of himself, back when he was just a young man, still blind to the ways of the world.

He winced and rubbed his leg. He felt older than his thirty-five years. He felt sick, tired. It occurred to him—and not for the first time—that his time here might end soon, without warning, and that the earth would forget him, would keep on its merry spinning while the people he left behind struggled to navigate a world without him.

“Nico?”

He glanced up and smiled at his sister. “We have a wonderful nephew, sis.”

“The best.” Margherita sat down across from him, touching his arm. “Please don’t let him join.”

“He’s a man grown now, Margherita, whether we like it or not. I’ll try to dissuade him, but ultimately, it’s his choice.” Niccolò took her hands in his. “Listen. I’m glad you married Biagio. He adores you, and always has, even when we were young. I hit him in the face when he first told me he loved you, and he kept right on telling me until I gave him my blessing.”

“I know—there’s a scar on his jaw. He tells that story all the time.” Margherita canted her head, brows knitting together. “Nico, you’re sort of scaring me.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.” He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “It’s difficult. This city, it… it changes you.”

“Niccolò…”

“I’m alright. Sorry. I’m fine.” Niccolò lifted his head and got shakily to his feet, waving her off when she reached out to help him. “Will you keep Primerana here with you? I need to see Marietta.”

“Of course. Niccolò, you know I love you?”

“I know. I love you too, sis.”

She nodded and hugged him briefly—she was stronger than she looked, and always had been—and he departed.

His chambers were dark; he paused by the door to light a taper and lamp and slipped into the bedroom. Marietta’s outline was just barely visible in the dark, hidden by a heavy coverlet. Niccolò sank down on the edge of the bed, setting the lamp on the bedside table before lowering a hand to her face, caressing her cheek.

“Are you awake?”

A silence, and then her voice floated up to him, muffled. “Yes.”

“I want to apologize, but I don’t know where to begin.” He slid his hand into her hair, brushing it off her brow. “You know I would never hurt Primerana, don’t you? I love her, Marietta. More than anything else in this world.”

“More than that man?”

“Yes.” And that was a cold, hard truth. He loved Gilberto. Gilberto had his heart, had for fifteen years, and always would. But Primerana was his daughter, and that was sacred in ways Niccolò couldn’t even begin to convey.

“I love her, too. That girl is the only decent thing I’ve put into this world.” Marietta chewed on her lip, twisting her little golden wedding band around on her finger. “And she helped me to love you.”

Niccolò nodded, understanding. He and Marietta had always gotten on well, but the girl hadn’t started to worm her way into his heart until he'd seen her belly swollen with the weight of their child.

“I didn’t think you were capable of it,” Marietta said, and suddenly she sat up, looking at Niccolò more directly than she ever had before. Her eyes were red and swollen, but her gaze was resolute. “I didn’t think you were capable of loving anyone—not me, not your friends, certainly not yourself. But when you hold her… they way you look when she calls you Papa, I…” The girl took his face between her hands, studying him. “I _know_ you, Niccolò. I know you now. At least, I thought I did—how could you not have told me your heart was elsewhere?”

“What could I have said, _amore mia_? Tell you that I had a lover—a man, no less?”

“Yes. Niccolò, I know you didn’t want to be married to me. I didn’t want this, either. I would have understood. I could have accepted that you had already found love with another.” She smiled hesitantly at him. “As for it being a man… well, you’ve never been very conventional.”

“I am sorry, Marietta.” He touched a cautious hand to her cheek, relieved when she leaned into him and nuzzled her face against his palm. “Not for being with Gilberto, but for not telling you. I was afraid.”

“Gilberto—is that his name? I thought it was…?”

“La Volpe. Just a moniker. No one calls him Gilberto but me.”

“When did you…?”

“I was eighteen. Long before I met you.” The same age she’d been, actually, when they were married. He tried not to dwell on that. He was acutely aware of Marietta’s youth, of how vulnerable she was, how much growing she had left to do, how little she’d seen compared to him. He wondered if Gilberto had felt the same way all those years ago. Perhaps he still did.

“And you love him, Niccolò? Truly? He makes you happy?”

“I do, and he does.” He cupped her chin, brushed a thumb across her lips. “You make me happy, too, sweetheart.” A different kind of happy, to be sure, but happiness was too fleeting for an assassin, and Niccolò wasn’t picky. “I know I haven’t always been a good husband, but you are a thousand times the wife I deserve. And you gave me Primerana. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze softening a little. “We’re still your family.”

“Of course.”

“And you swear that Primerana is—”

“First and foremost in my heart. Always.”

Marietta chewed on her lower lip, hesitant, and abruptly her eyes welled with tears. “And where am I in your heart, Niccolò? Is there any room for me?”

He hushed her when she sobbed, drawing her into his arms and holding her close. She clung to him like a helpless child, buried her face against his chest and cried. Her hair smelled of lavender. She was such a little thing, as fragile as a baby bird in body, though not in soul. Niccolò closed his eyes, memorizing the press of her soft curves against his front. Poor girl. He wished they could have been wed sooner, back when he was young and kind, back when he had all the love in the world to give. How different his life might be.

She slipped into fretful sleep after nearly an hour of quiet sobbing, and Niccolò gently tucked her beneath the blankets before curling up against her back, wrapping both arms around her slender frame and pulling her into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “You were just born too late.” He fell silent then, though he could have kept talking, for his fears were great and many—too great to be given voice, even to the darkness, even though it would never reply.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sonnet Niccolò recites first appears in a letter to Francesco Vettori dated 1515.
> 
> 'Il Machia' translates as 'the rogue' or 'the bandit' or 'the stain' and has a hyper-masculine connotation. Apparently Machiavelli's friends gave it to him as a joke, but it stuck throughout his career.
> 
> I love Niccolò but he's kind of a dick in this story. Sorry.

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“It does, but not badly. Don’t worry.”

“If it hurts, should you really be walking on it?”

“Gilberto? I said don’t worry.”

“Well, I’m worrying.”

“Evidently.” Niccolò adjusted the crutch beneath his arm; he sucked in a breath every time he gave his bad leg his weight, as if he were just waiting for it to give out. “Primerana—stay where I can see you, _piccina_.”

The little girl turned and waved, her dark curls turned onyx in the bright sunlight. She ran along the riverbank just ahead of them, giggling and splashing in water, pausing at intervals to excitedly point out fish.

Volpe exhaled, pushing his hood back and loosely threading his fingers with his lover’s when Primerana turned away again. “Just—let me know as soon as it starts to hurt.”

Niccolò rolled his eyes. “Alright.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you.”

“Of course not.”

The thief smiled in spite of himself. “What if stubbornness is the thing that kills you, Machia?”

“Then you and I will sit in hell and have a nice laugh about it.”

“You wound me. You think I deserve damnation?”

“For your many sins? Damnation is the least you deserve.”

Volpe laughed, and Niccolò flashed him a wide smile. They were still on tenterhooks, but the bitter hurt between them had been soothed by closeness. Volpe wondered if Marietta had been similarly attended; the girl still refused to meet his eyes and hadn’t said a word to him since she caught him about to hilt himself inside her husband. And Niccolò, of course, wasn’t exactly keen to keep Volpe updated on his relationship with his wife.

It would be over soon, Volpe reminded himself, and tightened his grip on Niccolò’s hand. Marietta would be far away, hiding in Germany where Cesare couldn’t find her.

And Primerana would leave as well. That reminder felt like a knife in Volpe’s heart. Marietta he could do without, but her little daughter was an angel. She was Niccolò in female miniature, endlessly curious and excitable. She was everything he loved about his _tesoro_ , absent the cynicism, biting sarcasm, and general bitterness at life. Volpe didn’t want to give her up; he wanted her here, in Rome, where he could see her everyday and watch Niccolò’s eyes soften when she called him Papa.

“Margherita asked me to go with them. To Germany.”

Volpe looked at his lover and blinked. “And you told her no. Right?”

“Of course I did. My place is here.” But Niccolò bit his lower lip, and Volpe sighed, coming to a halt.

“ _Tesoro_.”

“Who knows when they’ll be able to come back? Primerana could well be grown by the time I see her again. I don’t want—I don’t want her to grow up without a father.”

Volpe swallowed. “What are you saying? Are you going to go?”

“No. Maybe.” Niccolò ran a hand over his hair. “I don’t know.” He hesitated, looking down at their entwined hands. “Gilberto, I—I don’t want to leave you. Ever, if I can help it. But after all this… I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same way.”

Volpe was so shocked he physically jumped, tightening his hand around Niccolò’s out of sheer reflex. “You _idiot_. Don’t _ever_ say that again.”

“I just—”

“I don’t care. Just—don’t.” Volpe grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close, kissing him fiercely, forcing the younger man’s mouth to open under his. Niccolò dropped his crutch to wrap both arms around the thief’s neck, melting against him, and Volpe pulled their bodies flush, lifting the weight off of Niccolò’s bad leg.

“Papa!”

They broke apart hastily, and Niccolò gave him a look so heated he could feel its warmth across the space between them. The younger man reluctantly looked away, wiping a hand along his mouth before kneeling with a wince to catch his little daughter as she ran into his arms, giggling.

“Look!” she said excitedly, opening her small hands. “I found a shell.”

“It’s lovely. It’s a long way from the ocean; you’re very lucky you found it.”

“Can I keep it?”

Niccolò smiled and stroked her hair. “I don’t see why not. Maybe Mama will help you fashion it into a necklace if you ask very nicely.”

Primerana bobbed her head up and down and turned to Volpe, extending her hands. “Volpe, look! It’s a shell. It’s very far from the ocean and I’m very lucky I found it.”

He smothered a grin and bent down to examine it more closely. “How about that—this is a scallop. We used to call them lions’ paws when I was a boy.”

“Scallop,” Primerana repeated, turning it over in her hands. The sunlight caught its smooth belly, making the pinks and oranges glow.

Without warning Niccolò dropped onto his ass in the sand, splaying his wounded leg out with a groan, and Primerana plopped down at his side, still staring at her shell in wonder. A smiling Volpe sat down with them, leaning into Niccolò’s side. The younger man slid a hand up the back of his lover’s shirt, his fingers tracing the outline of his spine, and smiled when Volpe shivered.

“Tonight?”

“Mm. Definitely.” Volpe shot him a quizzical look. “If you can get away from—uh—from M-A-R-I—er—”

“I think she needs some respite from me,” Niccolò said, chuckling. “And I from her.”

“Did you not work things out?” Volpe probed.

“We made a start, but she’s hurt. And I don’t blame her.”

“No. I don’t either.” Volpe lowered his gaze. Primerana lost interest and toddled back toward the water, bending down to examine rocks, probably in search of more shells. “I feel guilty.”

“It’s not your responsibility to keep me faithful to my wife. I’m the one who’s split my attention between the only two people in this world foolish enough to love me.”

Volpe swallowed. “She does love you, then.”

“Yes. Idiot girl.” But there was no spitefulness in Niccolò’s words, and the look in his eyes was undeniably tender. “She should know better.”

“ _Tesoro_ , it’s—it’s alright if you’ve… if you’ve fallen in love with her. She is your wife, after all. That’s no small thing.”

Niccolò looked at him, brows furrowed. “I’m not _in_ love with her. I do love her. She’s the mother of my child. And she’s strong—I haven’t been in Florence for more than a month at a time since we were married, and she hardly ever complains. Well,” he added, rolling his eyes, “she complains to Biagio and Agostino, and they complain to me. But she’s always waiting for me when I return home. And I know I’m not an easy man to love.”

“No, you’re not,” Volpe agreed, and smiled when Niccolò punched his shoulder. “Have you tried? Falling in love with her, I mean.”

“If such a thing is possible, then yes. I’ve tried.” Niccolò touched him, a slow caress from cheek to jaw to chin, brushing a thumb across his lover’s mouth. “But it’s you, Gilberto. It’s always been you.”

The thief’s heart sprang into his throat. Perhaps it was fortunate that Primerana came running back to them with an exciting new discovery, because it was so, so hard to resist the temptation to take his _tesoro_ right there in the sand.

**  
** ****

* * *

“Have you ever written poetry about me?”

Niccolò cracked one eye open, looking down at the man strewn lazily across his lap. “What?”

Volpe smiled, leaning down to press another soft kiss to Niccolò’s cum-stained belly, thumb trailing gentle touches around the base of his spent cock and down between his legs. “Petrarch wrote to Laura for thirty years, and Michelangelo still writes sonnets for that young man who has so enraptured him. I was wondering if you’d written about me.”

A pause, and for a moment Volpe was sure it would end with a scoff, but Niccolò slid a hand into his hair before trailing his fingertips gently down the back of Volpe’s neck to his spine.

“You fool. I write about you all the time.”

Volpe lifted his head. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well, shit. Like what?”

“Sonnets, mostly.” Niccolò smiled and shrugged one shoulder. “I can’t help myself.”

“Why haven’t I ever read them?”

“You can, if you’d like. I should warn you they tend toward foolishness, especially the ones I wrote when I was younger.”

Volpe’s heart leapt into his throat. “Did you write any when we first met?”

“Of course. Several.”

“I have to see them,” Volpe said at once, and pushed himself up onto his elbows so he could kiss lips already pinked and swollen from his attentions. Niccolò’s eighteen-year-old heart, captured on paper…

“Think you can go again?” Niccolò asked, breaking their kiss with a soft gasp against Volpe's mouth.

The thief chuckled. “I’m not sure. We went for it awfully hard, my love. A man’s cock can only take so much, and your leg…”

“Ride me, then,” Niccolò murmured, trailing his hands up and down Volpe’s sides. “Please? I still want you.”

“Mm.” Volpe straddled the younger man’s hips, seating his ass against the arch of Niccolò’s stirring cock and grinding against him gently. “Only if you recite your poetry from me.”

“Oh, come on…”

“You want me to ride your cock or don’t you?” Volpe bent to kiss the younger man’s smiling mouth. “Please, _tesoro_?”

Niccolò sighed. He reached for the bottle of oil and slicked his fingers before reaching for his lover. Volpe inhaled when those fingers entered him, stretching him, and accepted the bottle so he could upend it over Niccolò’s cock. They came together with twin moans, rocking against one another, Volpe biting at his lips when Niccolò slid into him.

“Many times the young archer has already tried to wound my breast with his arrows,” Niccolò murmured, and pushed himself up, taking Volpe into his lap and tugging him close, until their foreheads touched. “Because he takes pleasure in showing contempt for and inflicting injury on others…”

Volpe thought of himself as too old for firsts, but that night was the first time he made love in iambic pentameter.

* * *

Marietta took to walking in the morning just as the sun broke the horizon. Rome, Niccolò told her repeatedly, was no place for a young woman to be out on her own, but Ezio had rolled his eyes and assured her that Tiber Island was quite safe—even while her husband scowled and grumbled something about “putting ideas in her head.”

She smiled to herself—just a little—kicking at a rock that lay in her path. Niccolò seemed to think of her as a little bird, small and sweet, but helpless. She supposed she’d given him fair reason. She had cried on their wedding night, and swooned at the sight of her blood on the sheets, but she had grown stronger since then. She had spent long months in solitude, fighting off loneliness; she had carried a child in her body and delivered it into the world; she had learned the wiles and ways of the Signoria, had learned that her husband’s colleagues would divulge just about any secret if she batted her eyelashes and wore her corset just a little too low. Nothing fascinated her quite so much as the power she could hold over men (and even over some women). If Niccolò’s mind was a sword, then her breasts, apparently, were a cannon.

“My loving wife thinks so poorly of me,” he’d said, and smiled. What was that called?—projection? Because it was he who thought poorly of her, who questioned her strength and her loyalty, who lied to her and let her think he was just a simple politician, while here, in Rome, he had lit a fire that would consume all of Italy.

And God help her, she loved him.

The last time he visited her in Florence—two, three months ago?—they had made love, in the truest sense, for perhaps the first time. He was always gentle, of course, and had never forced himself on her, but their time in their marriage bed had been a chore for him. This Marietta knew, but it still hurt, a constant, aching pain that settled somewhere behind her ribs every time he took her into his arms. But the last time, the morning he left, had been different. He had taken her slowly, deeply, cradled her legs around his waist and trailed his lips across her breast when she arched into him. And after he finished inside her, he had knelt between her legs, his breath and lips and tongue caressing her sex until she came for him.

She had wondered, at the time—in her naivete—why he hadn’t been repulsed by the proximity to his own seed, but of course now she knew better. How many times must he have tasted himself on that man’s—on Volpe’s lips? How many times had the mouth that kissed her similarly caressed a man’s body? Did Niccolò touch him the way he touched her, trail slow, lingering fingertips along Gilberto’s back, smooth a palm over his ass, slap it very, very lightly with that soft, teasing smile? Did Niccolò kiss him awake, hands in his hair, cradling his jaw, murmur “Sweetheart” against his mouth? Did Gilberto know the sensation of Niccolò’s tongue between his legs, did he—

“ _Madonna?_ ”

Marietta started and turned. Volpe himself stood behind her, watching her cautiously.

“Are you alright?”

“I—yes.” Flustered, she looked down and smoothed her hands over her dress. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Volpe’s frown deepened. “You’re crying.”

She touched her fingertips to her cheek and found it damp. “I… didn’t realize.” Shit, she thought, and relished the swear, even if it didn’t leave her own mind. What kind of fool stood crying by a river without even realizing it? Her kind, she supposed, and not without bitterness.

But Volpe’s eyes softened, and, hesitating a little, he reached for her and wiped away an errant tear. “He has that effect.”

She didn’t need to ask what he meant, and he didn’t try to explain. She had wondered for days now what she might do if she found herself alone with this man, this stranger, this thief who had loved her husband into manhood, who had loved Niccolò Machiavelli when the conflagration in his heart—his passion, his ambition, his genius—was but a little ember. Marietta had indulged innumerable fantasies. It would be nice to strike this Volpe—not hard, not without warning, just a sharp slap across his cheek. It would also be nice to shoot him in the balls. It would also be nice to sit him down and have the whole story—how had he met Niccolò, how beautiful had he been as a boy, how bright was his smile, did his brow still crinkle just so when he thought hard?

Marietta thought to do all these things, and more, but acted upon none of them. Instead, her vision swam, and she strode forward and wrapped both arms around Volpe’s waist and began to cry.

“I love him,” she said, her voice hitching around a sob, and shook her head, throat aching, heart aching—everything aching. _Niccolò_. “I didn’t want to, and I didn’t always, but I do now—I love him.”

“I know.” Volpe’s arms went around her, and the weight of his head rested against hers. “I know. I’m sorry, Marietta. I’m so sorry.”

He let her cry a few minutes more, then took her hand and guided her to the riverbank, sitting beside her in the grass. Marietta wiped at her cheeks, smiling when he offered her a handkerchief produced seemingly from nowhere.

“Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. It’s Machia’s—I keep forgetting to return it to him.”

She giggled through the last of her tears. “Machia—it’s been awhile since I’ve heard anyone call him that.”

“You don’t?”

Marietta snorted. “He earned himself that name in a brothel—Biagio said he’d had so many girls that it didn’t make sense to call him anything other than a bandit.”

“Fear not. I put a stop to that.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Thank goodness.” A pause, and then— “I’m almost glad that, if he absolutely had to have another lover, it turned out to be a man.”

Volpe chuckled at that. “Oh?”

“Well, I don’t think I could stand competing with another woman. This way, at least, I think there may be room for both of us.” She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them, blowing her hair out of her eyes. “Is that silly?”

“No. I don’t think it is.” Volpe tilted his head to look at her. “I asked him if he was in love with you. He told me no, but I’m sure he lied.”

“How do you know?”

“His eyes.” Volpe smiled, but there was little happiness in it. “It was the same look he gives me, or near enough that I thought my heart might stop. I wonder when it happened—I wonder when I lost him. How it happened without my noticing. I thought I knew Machia. So why didn’t I know that his heart was elsewhere?”

Marietta swallowed—hadn’t she said the same thing to Niccolò? “I’m sorry.”

Volpe snorted. “Are you? You’re the one who took him from me.”

She stiffened. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course not.” The thief looked over at her, his dark eyes too keen for her liking. “Can you blame me for hating you?”

She expected that to hurt, but it didn’t. It was almost a relief. “No. Not if you won’t blame me for hating you, as well.” She bit her lip, twisting a blade of grass between her fingers. “I’d ask that that hatred not extend to our daughter. She’s so dear to Niccolò.”

“Mm. She’s a sweet child. Maybe you’ll understand that I’m conflicted on that point, as well. On the one hand, she’s Niccolò’s girl. A piece of him. On the other hand—she’s also a piece of you. And you’ve been the thing pulling his heart away from me, the thing driving a wedge between us. You’ve tried to collar him, and change him. I fell in love with Niccolò because I knew he was a man beyond anyone’s control, and yet you’ve tried to douse his fire—and, in some ways, you’ve succeeded. I resent you for that most of all.” Volpe fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, he did so in low tones. “I told him I’d be kind to you, but I don’t think I have it in me.”

“You’ve enabled him,” Marietta shot back, ignoring the heat in her cheeks when he glared at her. “You know it’s true. You encouraged all of it—the intrigue, and the lying, the drinking, the killing, that animal lust he has for you. You knew he was out of you reach, so you pulled him down to your level—down into your filth. You were so scared of his mind that you tried to make him a prisoner of his body.”

“You don’t know us,” Volpe said, and the coldness of his tone almost made her recoil—almost. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know enough. I know that Niccolò chose me. He was told to find a wife and he chose me. And it took time, but I’ve chosen him as well.”

“Does it hurt?” Volpe challenged. “Knowing he married you against his own will.”

“Of course—it did at first, at least. Less so now. He’s changed. He changed the day Primerana was born. I saw it happen before my very eyes. He’s different from the man I married.”

For a moment, she was almost scared of him, of this man of whom she knew almost nothing, this man who had loved her Niccolò for fifteen long years—a span of time against which she knew she couldn’t compete. But the look in his eyes wasn’t anger—it was pain. Probably the same pain that clawed at her own heart, pain that could make them friends as much as it could make them enemies.

Volpe looked down at the river and released a long, slow sigh. “I knew something had changed. Something was different between us. He seemed distant. Far away. He—” Volpe stopped and sniffed. Abruptly he got to his feet and whirled around on his heel, inhaling deeply.

“What?” Marietta turned, but couldn’t see what had drawn his attention. “What is it?”

“I think—I think it’s fire.” Volpe grasped her by the hand and hauled her to her feet. “I think the hideout is on fire.”

 

**  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also sorry for all the dialogue and soliloquy, holy shit.


End file.
